Safe Asylum
by carnifax
Summary: Chase spoke, his voice still soft. "If you want me to leave, House... just tell me to leave..." House/Chase
1. The Man on the Couch

**Safe Asylum**

By Carnifax  
House, M.D.  
House/Chase  
Rated M  
Drama/Romance  
_House stopped a safe distance away from the center of the room, staring in confusion at the blonde, antipodean doctor currently curled up on his couch._

Wow, crazy, a House/Chase story. (I usually write House/Wilson, for those who didn't know.) This'll end up being maybe twenty chapters, and I'm already being forced to whip out random non-canon occurances... but I like it. We'll see where imagination takes me.

* * *

The ringing phone, even at ten in the morning, was as sharp as a scalpel to House's mid-REM brain. His hand found its way to the receiver on its own, and he rumbled a curt, "What is it."

"House, it's Cameron," came the soft voice. "Have you—"

"I told you, if you want to talk to me in the morning, you may as well fall asleep with me at night."

"I thought that was Cuddy's job," his former employee said as he managed to stand. Her laugh, even over the phone, was noticeably tense.

"What dire information could you call _me_ for?"

She paused. "House, I just need to know if you've seen Chase. He's never late to work, and… well… He's late today."

"_Shocking_," House sneered, grabbing for his cane. At first he was unsuccessful, but he got it the second time. Limping into the hallway, he heard his stomach making noises and hoped there was something to eat in the fridge.

"I'm worried," Cameron sighed, making the phone static with her breath. "I didn't see him yesterday evening, even though we were supposed to go to dinner—"

"Maybe he's tired of you," he suggested. "Maybe he's sleeping with that nurse from peds."

"The male nurse?" Cameron let out another too-high laugh. "Oh, yeah, the man I've been sleeping with is obviously gay."

"_Ew_," House whined, finally in his living room. "TMI, much?"

She sighed again and said, "So you have no idea where he might be? Who he might be with?"

"Of course not. Just because I occasionally…" He stopped, both in speech in motion.

"House?" Her voice turned shrill. "_House_?"

"I'm here," he said, slowly. "Do you realize that I'm already over two hours late to work?" And then he hung up the phone, placed it on the end table and made his way around to the front of the couch. He kept a few steps from the center of the room and stopped a safe distance away, staring in confusion at the blonde, antipodean doctor currently curled up on his couch.

House inched closer, throwing a glance toward the door, which was closed _and_ locked. But then House saw the spare key lying on the floor, next to a dried-up pool of blood the size of his palm. Eyes narrowed, he returned his gaze to Chase and inched closer, examining him.

His jaw looked as if he'd taken sandpaper to it and scrubbed the entire right half of his face. The cut on his forehead, one possible cause of the blood, looked deep enough to need stitches. His hair was mussed and had pieces of gravel throughout. There didn't seem to be any more cuts—though, with Chase's clothes on, it was hard to tell—but his left pinkie finger had been broken at the second joint.

He barely had time to begin speculating when a familiar knock on the door echoed through the apartment. Chase stirred, nuzzling farther into the pillow, but didn't awaken.

"Hou—oh," Wilson said when the door opened, dropping his tone from loud to murmured. "I thought you were asleep. What's wrong?" he added, catching the unmasked look of confusion written across his face. And then his eyes lowered, landing on the puddle of blood just inside the door. "_House_!" he yelled in anxious exasperation. "What did you do to yourself n—"

House clapped a hand over Wilson's mouth with a glance over his shoulder. He pushed the oncologist into the hallway and closed the door behind him just as Wilson batted away the hand.

"What, do you have a _friend_ over that you can't disturb?" he spat, but his eyes were giving House a once-over for injuries.

"That's not my blood," House said evenly, but quietly, trying to simultaneously listen for noises from inside the apartment.

Wilson shifted his weight with a sigh, none of his tension assuaged by this. "Did you do anything illegal?"

"Keep your voice down," he hissed. "And I didn't commit any crimes," he added quickly. "For your information, I don't even know what caused the blood on the floor."

The oncologist's eyes darkened again, worried lines etching into his face. "Did someone break in?"

"No—I know whose blood it is, I just…" House shook his head, looking over his shoulder at the door. "I don't know why they're here."

"_Stacy_?" Wilson asked, incredulous.

"Of course it's not Stacy," House replied with a small, sarcastic laugh. "Besides, she's too anal to leave blood on the floor." His brusque tone of voice was returning, visibly relaxing Wilson. "Go to work, I'll be there eventually."

"House…?"

He shook his head, gesturing toward the door that led outside. "No, go on without me."

Wilson took a hesitant step and then paused, his eyes never leaving House. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you need help with anything? I could—"

"What, do you want to be late to work on my behalf? How thoughtful of you!" House waved a hand toward the door again, and this time Wilson left, albeit unwillingly.

The diagnostician cautiously went back inside his apartment, oddly relieved that Chase hadn't woken. He picked up the spare key and set it gently on the coffee table, leaning as close to the blonde as he dared. Usually, when faced with a mystery, he could use clever deductions to find the answer. But this mystery wasn't medical, and there was no history. There was just a doctor on a couch, bloodied and bruised.

Eyeing every inch of Chase for wounds, House paused at his waist. There was a tiny, bare strip of skin showing between his shirt and jeans, but fingerprint-sized smears of blood dotted the edges; a dark, dried-up crimson red.

House snapped his hand from where it was in midair, unconsciously reaching to examine the marks. He had to remind himself that this wasn't his business—though, it _was_ his apartment—and that he shouldn't involve himself in whatever Chase had gotten himself into. Chase was reasonable; if he had been severely injured, he would've done something about it.

_But_, House considered, standing, _that doesn't explain the blood._

His eyes roved to the red circle by the door before he shook his head, attempting to clear his thoughts without success. He returned to the bedroom to get changed, every so often peeking out through the doorframe to check for even, sleepy breathing.

Having dressed for work, House was forced to return to the living room where Chase still slept. He stood in front of the blonde, twirling his cane, thinking. He could wake the man and have to involve himself, _or_ he could leave, _or_…

But he couldn't just leave. House had no exceptional interest in the Aussie, but after working with him for so long, he felt some sprinkling of guilt in merely brushing him aside.

With a sigh, House fetched a pad of paper and a pen, as well as various medical supplies he had stashed around the apartment. Setting everything on the coffee table a foot away from Chase, he scribbled a note.

_Cameron called, looking for you. She's worried. Patch yourself up and then call her._ He stopped, idly biting the end of the pen, and sighed. _Get your head stitched up, or else._

Slightly more satisfied, he put the paper on the table next to everything else. Before he could leave, though, a bruise caught his eye. It was red, beginning turning bluish-purple already, and it was on Chase's wrist… and it looked suspiciously like a handprint. House pulled the unbuttoned cuff of the blonde's shirt back, and there it was—four fingers on one side, a thumb on the other, in the perfect mold of a hand.

Chase suddenly winced away and House straightened, sucking in a breath. But the younger doctor didn't wake up; he only buried his face farther into the pillows of the couch.

House knew he had to leave, even if only so that Wilson didn't come back, but at the same time his mind told him to figure out what had happened to his ex-employee. Eventually, he made himself drive to work, and yet even as he limped past an irritated Cuddy in the clinic, he was thinking about the man on his couch.

* * *

Tell me what you think...


	2. Concern, or Lack Thereof

**Safe Asylum**

Holy _((insert multiple expletives here))_...! I never new House/Chase was such a massive part of this fandom, but... _wow_. Almost forty reviews and more than sixty alerts, plus various favorites, just for one chapter? I mean, I usually do a "Thank You" section and put everyone's name up (and reply to reviews), but with all of those names... Um, yeah, that won't be possible. So, thanks, everyone, especially for using the words _intriguing_, _interesting_, _more _and _descriptive_... That was a very nice welcome into the pairing!

Whoo. Anyway-- I have to apologize to everyone as well, because (due to parental restrictions) I was disallowed from the internet for the last few weeks... but on the plus side, I now have up to chapter six written!

As any of my stories go, this will _not_ be a story where two people suddenly realize they're in love with each other and confess and live happily ever after, (damn!), even if that is sweet and romantic. I like intricate plots, egads!

Now, shall we begin?

* * *

"Dr. Cameron's in your office…" Thirteen pointed out when House swiveled on her for the next suggestion during the differential. "She looks like she wants something."

House didn't even look toward his office and instead swung his head around in a makeshift shake, letting a slow "Not quite…" pour from his mouth. "If attractive women had anything to do with this kid's lungs, he'd have no problems because, firstly, he's a complete snob _and_ a complete dork with no muscles whatsoever, and secondly, the kid is _so_ gay it almost hurts him to be around testoster—"

"But she looks worried," Thirteen said quietly, blinking long lashes as she moved her gaze from her boss to the anxious blonde.

Cameron caught her eye and pointed to House, mouthing his name, signaling through the glass.

"She wants to see you—"

"—naked, I know," House sighed, giving a chuckle. "But I'm sure you'd gladly strip down for her, right?" He shrugged, waving the dry-erase marker about. "You lesbians and your stripping. I don't know why you girls don't always just carry a videocamera arou—"

"Testosterone…" Kutner suddenly murmured. Everyone's eyes landed on him, even House's. "Maybe it's testosterone."

"Lack of testosterone would explain the lack of muscles, even after all that exercising," Foreman agreed, tapping his pen against his cheek. "We attributed personality to something—maybe he's acting childishly because he's not _chemically_ grown up yet."

House's eyes narrowed, shining electrically from the pleasure of solving a puzzle. "Test his testosterone levels—forget the old labs, draw new blood." For a second, he considered silently. "Test… test-osterone. _Test_… Wow, never noticed that." He nodded to his team. "Go."

Everyone left, discussing various causes, but Thirteen stopped in the doorway. "Cameron—"

"What are you, my conscience?" House waved her away with his cane. "Go, test, be free!"

When House finally turned to his office, Cameron had already appeared two feet away, her manicured brows hanging low over her eyes. "It's Chase again," she said, almost a whisper. "He's late—_really_ late, House. You know about anything abnormal—you _crave_ anything abnormal! Are you sure—"

"I don't know where your boyfriend is," House growled, and instantly that pesky irritation in his chest returned. It wasn't the lying that caused it; it was the equally pesky wombats problems, and the mysterious blood on the floor.

"But he's—"

House shook his head, moving past her into his office. "He's probably here now; it's past noon. Go look for him in the OR or somethi—"

"He's not in the OR, I checked." Cameron followed him and remained standing even when he plopped into his chair. "And he's _not_ sleeping with anyone else, especially not that guy from Peds, so don't even suggest it." She sighed, sweeping a rogue piece of hair behind her ear. "House, you really haven't seen him? Heard from him?"

House shook his head a second time, looking at the files on his desk. The sudden, unfamiliar feeling of unease was latching onto various areas of his chest, tightening his lungs. Idly, his fingers pulled out the collar of his t-shirt in a vain attempt to breathe more easily.

"It's almost one o'clock," Cameron said softly, putting her palms on his desk. "If he's not here by one thirty, I'm coming back. Okay?"

House looked up at her. "If I say that's not okay, will you _not_ come?"

She didn't answer. Cameron simply gave him a fearful, shaky glare and left.

At exactly one fifteen, after berating his team for slow test results, House barged into Wilson's office without regard to who else might be inside. Luckily for the oncologist, he had no patients scheduled until three forty-five, which left plenty of time to interrogate House.

"Cameron came by this morning," Wilson said, dropping his pen onto an open file. "Apparently, Chase is missing. He's not the one in your apartment, is he?"

"You caught me!" House cried, throwing his hands up. "I've been holding him hostage! It's his hair, it's so pretty, the way it glitters and lights up a room and _grows_ and _talks_ and _sings_ and has an _accent_ and—"

"Okay," Wilson said quickly, "okay! I get your point, it _isn't_ Chase! But House, who _was_ that, in your apartment?"

House shrugged. "No one. More importantly, are you eating any time soon?"

"I just had lunch." When House made an astonished, gasp, Wilson smirked. "I'm sorry, I guess I forgot to let you steal my food. How is my food more important than blood on your—"

"That's irrelevant," House shrugged. "I can't make energy from a missing person. Actually _shockingly_, the _opposite_ happens when someone goes missing."

"And you know… _nothing_ about Chase's disappearance?" Wilson wondered, waving a hand. "I assumed _you_'d be the _most_ interested."

"He doesn't work for me," House shrugged. "Why does every conversation have to do with Chase today? So he's _sick_, so he's _missing_—so _what_?"

"If _you_ were missing—"

The door abruptly opened. Cameron appeared in the doorframe, eyes scanning the room for House. When she found him, she sucked in a quiet gasp and stepped into the room, nodding politely to Wilson.

House groaned, grabbing the tiny battery-operated Mickey Mouse clock from Wilson's desk. He held it out to her. "It's only one twenty! He'll be here!"

"I sent in a missing persons report for him," Cameron said, coming closer with desperate eyes. "The police found his car in a parking garage by some restaurants, and the videotapes show him leaving yesterday at _five_. Five o'clock, House—in the _evening_! That's…!" She lowered her eyes, trying to breathe calmly.

"That _is_ suspicious," Wilson said quietly, his curious stare level with House's. "Why does she think you know something?"

"Because she has no one else to bother," House replied, toying with other things on Wilson's desk. He shook a snowglobe and watched the flakes settle, thinking. "Chase is probably just—"

"He's _probably_ just in really big trouble!" Cameron sputtered, suddenly crossing the line between concern and anger. "You're _always_ curious! Why aren't you curious when an employee goes—"

"Ex-employee," House amended.

"—_ex_-employee goes missing?" She tore the snowglobe from his hands and dropped it in Wilson's lap, staring down at the diagnostician. "You're impossible! If Wilson had disappeared, you'd be crawling around the city with your entire team _and_ half the hospital, disrupting lives and upsetting entire apartment complexes in search of him! Why aren't you doing that for Chase unless you _already_ know where he is?"

House turned his stare on her, letting her catch her breath before he spoke. "I don't. Know. _Anything._"

For a minute everything was silent, Cameron apparently taken by surprise at the indisputable rebuff, but then she clamped her jaw tightly and gave a quiet _hmph_. "You're _lying_. You must know _something_!"

House rolled his eyes, rising to his feet and grabbing his cane. "Let's assume for a minute that Chase _is_ in trouble. If he's alive enough to bother _me_ about it, wouldn't he have already called _you_?" He shoved past her with more force than necessary, flinging open Wilson's door. "You'll find him eventually, so _leave me alone_."

**xXx**

House had made a stupid mistake. It wasn't even a mistake, and it wasn't even that conspicuous—none of the boy's symptoms pointed to a genetic endocrine defect—but it was enough of a problem to affect his diagnostic efficiency. And it was all caused by the wombat on his couch.

Long after the patient had been diagnosed, House sat in his office, idly tossing the ball against the whiteboard, his mind far away. His thoughts ran in loops, repeating.

_What happened to Chase? Why did he come to me? Why didn't he go to Cameron? What happened to him that no one else can know? Why can I know? Why am I more trustworthy than Cameron? Is he relying on me to ignore him so Cameron won't find out? How did he get to the apartment? Where did he get that key? Which part of his body did the blood on the floor come from? Why didn't I tell Wilson? Why did I wake Chase up and force him to leave? Will he be there when I get back to the apartment?_

And then came the most prominent question: _Why the hell do I care?_ But House knew the answer, at least he liked to think he did—he was curious, and that was all. A former employee goes missing—_anyone_ goes missing—and a mystery begs to be solved… It was practically a Rubik's wet dream.

House caught the ball and, considering for a moment, picked up a marker from his desk. He uncapped it with his teeth, beginning to scribble on the board. He started with _blood on floor_ and _scraped face_, then quickly added _handprint bruise_, _gravel in hair_ and _broken finger_.

And then in a strange rush of embarrassment, he groped for the eraser and got rid of all the black letters, eradicating all evidence of… of whatever had just come over him.

House sat completely still for a minute, staring at the whiteness of the board until the door opened and he jumped. Wilson's gaze was curious when House met it with wide eyes.

"You okay?" the oncologist asked, very slowly coming in to sit across from House. "You seem on-edge."

"Kutner got the answer," he muttered. "I missed it."

"Oh, with the hormone-secretion-problem kid? It happens, House—that's _why_ you have a team."

He shook his head, his blue eyes wandering back to the whiteboard. He noticed a tiny black speck, leftover from the word _gravel_, and instantly reached out to erase it.

"I'm pretty sure that board is blank," Wilson mused, one brow raised. "Are you sure this thing about Chase isn't bothering you?"

"Why _would_ it bother me?" came the fast retort.

Wilson know the immediate response meant House really _was_ upset by it, but chose to ignore it. "I heard Chase never made it into work today," Wilson said instead, off-handedly. "Cameron hasn't been up to see you again?"

"It's amazing, but she hasn't. _Yet_," he added.

"Yet," Wilson agreed, with a curt laugh. He stretched and stood, yawning a little. "Aren't you leaving?"

House shook his head tersely. "Cuddy threatened that if I left before the endocrine kid got out of his coma, she'd personally oversee fifty more clinic hours. I'll be here for at least another hour."

Wilson nodded, but as he went toward the door he said quietly, "I wonder what's making you lie about that." He stopped and looked over his shoulder. "You don't want to go home. I don't know why, but you're scared to go back your apartment. House… _Go back to your apartment_."

House sighed, turning back to his whiteboard when Wilson was out of sight. He picked up the marker a second time, but could only get within an inch of the board before he capped the marker, grabbed his coat and grudgingly left for home.

**xXx**

House had realized, on the way home, that Chase had procured the spare key from the pocked on his motorcycle, which had been long forgotten by the diagnostician himself. That alleviated some ideas from House's mind; the possibility of an impromptu visit was now more likely than a premeditated one, although Chase's knowledge of that obscure location opened the door for more possibilities. Chase's unwillingness to simply ask Cameron for her copy of the key made House's ideas spiral out of control, keeping his thoughts occupied until House reached for the apartment's doorknob, when everything froze.

The first thing he noticed was that the blood on the floor was gone; the second was the emptiness of the apartment. No one else was in the apartment, which ran simultaneous floods of relief and anxiety through House's body.

Chase was gone, and now House didn't have to deal with him, which was good.

Chase was gone, and now House had no idea where he was, which was _disastrous_.

* * *

If you find any errors, please mention them. (This was retyped quickly so it could be online ASAP, you see...)

And be sure to leave a review...


	3. Refusal to Listen

**Safe Asylum**

I hope this update is soon enough, because all of fourteen hours have passed since the last one... And thanks for the corrections. (Wilson's "I heart Chase" thing made me laugh.)

Oh, and Pon(s)-chan... What the _hell_ are snicklebits? And... _glompamagation_? (FYI: It's hard to pull up pants when you aren't wearing any--"Pants are for the weak!") Eye, eye, eye... I _what_?!

Voila, chapter drei:

* * *

House couldn't sleep at all that night, so when he woke up after a half-hour nap and realized it was still only 7:45 am, he shoved himself out of bed and unwillingly went into work. If he had only slept in ten minutes longer, he may have missed the event that seemed to set the pace for the rest of the day.

Maybe it was karma, woken from its hibernation and eager to kick his ass, but as soon as House got past the front desk and headed for the elevators, his stomach did that new flipping trick it had learned ever since Chase showed up at his apartment as the Aussie himself appeared, bandaged but groomed.

House's cane reached the elevator button just before Chase's outstretched arm did. The diagnostician grunted smugly in greeting, trying not to look too closely at the surgeon. Chase merely nodded, a terse and nervous twitch, and swallowed.

The silence between them while they waited felt nothing like silence, as if a whole conversation, almost an argument, was taking place without their consent. Chase shifted his weight from one side to the other and winced; House couldn't help but notice the tiny movement, or the way Chase rubbed his swollen wrist as he stepped through the elevator doors, or the way he dropped his gaze when their eyes met for an instant.

He shouldn't have been worried—he was _House_—but it bothered him, and he wasn't even sure what 'it' was. Whatever had made him write Chase's so-called symptoms on the board last night didn't feel like the usual frustration of a puzzle unsolved, it felt… _personal_.

When Chase turned away to look politely at the elevator doors, House leaned back against the wall and openly stared the blonde down, his eyes once again roving his entire body.

The bandage on his wrist over the handprint-shaped bruise stuck slightly out of his cuff, and from the way Chase was holding his bag it was clear that it ached. He had wrapped his broken finger and put House's metal splint over it, and had taped a very white bandage over the gash on his forehead.

For a moment, House wondered if Chase had had stitches, and then he immediately dismissed the worry and continued his glance-over.

The white of a bandage peeked conspicuously from the collar of his shirt, just over his left shoulder, but the wound must have been on his stomach; Chase wasn't moving as if his shoulder was the injured part.

The elevator doors suddenly _ding_ed open and Chase moved out of the way, letting House out. House suddenly realized that there was no reason for him to be on the elevator—the operating rooms were all on the first floor and so was the OR lounge—but passed him without comment, once again avoiding direct eye contact.

For the next two hours, everything seemed to return to normal in the diagnostics office. The underlings took assorted positions around the room, doing word searches and playing hangman on the whiteboard, waiting for another case to come up. Cuddy stopped by to take a picture of House beside a clock that read _9:00_, making remarks about him coming in early, and Taub made the worst batch of coffee in history, but that was it.

Until, of course, 10:00 rolled by and Cameron appeared at the door, looking frustrated in her scrubs. She shoved into the room, silently ushering House into his own office and ignoring the rest of the team.

"He won't tell me what happened to him!" she said as soon as the door closed. "Chase, I mean—he came by my apartment yesterday, thankfully already bandaged, but the first thing he said was, 'Could you stitch up my forehead?'!"

"And… _did_ you stitch up his forehead?"

"Obviously!" she hissed. "But I have no idea what happened—he broke his finger, his face is all scratched up, his eye looks puffy, he looks like he got in a fight and—"

"He probably _did_ get into a fight, then," House shrugged, kicking his feet onto the desk.

"And you have _no_ idea what he got himself into?" Cameron swayed, crossing her arms. "No idea? At _all_? You're the diagnostician with the Rubik's complex, you must have _some_—"

"For the last time, _I don't know what happened_." His eyes caught on the woman speaking to his team in the other room. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it looks as if the scary administratoress is trying to seduce members of my team."

Cameron rolled her eyes and stormed from the office, leaving House to get back to his job. Cuddy looked up as soon as he walked in, her face brightening.

"Case for you," she said, handing him a file. "Budding model has heart complications. We're testing her right now for anything common, but I figure you'll want an ogle even if she's completely healthy."

House nodded, tossing the file at Foreman. "I'll get right on that."

There was a pause throughout the room; Cuddy spoke first, eyes wide in disbelief. "You're _dismissing_ a _model_? She's _pretty_, she's _underage_, she's one of those people you can be creepy towards without getting arrested!" She threw up her hands. "What, are you _sick_? Is Wilson dying?"

Kutner interrupted her before she could continue. "Well, Dr. Chase is—"

"Everyone knows Chase is injured, and no one knows why," Cuddy said, "but that's obviously boring to House because it's not _diagnostically_ mysterious; Dr. Chase just got into a fight and is too embarrassed to tell his girlfriend he lost."

"Actually," Thirteen murmured, "I think he was going to say that Dr. Chase is—"

"A _model_, House." Cuddy shook her head and turned to leave. "Take the case if the tests come back negative, or I'm admitting _you_."

"House," Taub tried, "Dr. Chase really is—"

"He's in trouble, I _get_ it!" House spat, smacking his cane onto the glass table. "Stop talking about it! I don't give a da—"

"House!" Foreman barked. The diagnostician glared at him, but was surprised when the neurologist pointed back toward House's personal office. "Chase is here to see you."

House had the strong urge to merely collapse into the nearest chair and completely ignore the surgeon, but he knew that Chase would just come into the room and awkwardly have the conversation in front of the team. Eventually the news would get to Cuddy, and then House would have Cameron in his face, yelling at him for keeping information about Chase from her.

House sighed. It was better just to deal with one angry, girlish person now than the ranks of them he'd have to battle later.

He turned toward the glass, unmoving, hoping that a simple glare would scare the blonde off. But his glare turned soft once he actually saw Chase's expression. He looked exhausted—not physically, but mentally, as if Cameron had just lectured him for hours on end—and guilty, as well as a little scared. As soon as House looked at him, Chase winced and took a slow half-step back, lips pursed.

Reluctantly, House opened the door to his office and stepped inside. "Yes?"

Chase opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He glanced twitchily into the other room, where all four doctors were frankly eyeing him.

House followed his gaze and threw a smirk at Foreman before yanking the blinds shut. Without a glance at Chase, he sat at his desk and picked up the eight ball, toying with it in his hands. "_Yes_?" he said again, bringing Chase back. "You called?"

"Yeah…" Chase muttered, sitting in the chair across from House. He pushed the chair against the wall, more willing to face the blinds than the icy stare of his ex-boss. "Well… I think I should tell you why…" He paused, and after a second he grabbed the red ball from the desk and tossed it between his hands. "I think I should explain—"

"No way," House read from the eight ball.

Chase's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "But—"

"No," House said again, dropping the toy back onto the windowsill. "No need for explanations. I don't want any."

The intensivist stared at him, shaking his head slightly, the ball idle in his palm. "But I… I just _appeared_ in your—"

House held up a hand to stop him, and then used the same hand to gesture toward the door. Chase set the ball back on the desk but hesitated, staring open-mouthed for a second before he gingerly eased himself from the chair.

When he was a foot from the door, House suddenly murmured, "Chase…"

The surgeon stopped, turned. Expression completely open, his eyes held both relief and anxiety.

But House couldn't remember what he was about to say. He closed his mouth and simply stared at Chase, blue eyes smoldering with that feeling that made him write on the whiteboard, that made his stomach twinge when he saw Chase had disappeared from the apartment, that made him unable to sleep last night.

Abruptly, the blinds at the glass rattled and Cameron appeared, forcing Chase to look up. House's gaze didn't stray from Chase, but he growled, "Cameron."

"Cuddy gave you a short shift this morning," she said quietly to Chase, realizing she interrupted something. "I said I'd give you a ride home… Don't you remember?" She reached out to his bandaged forehead, but Chase recoiled. "Amnesia? Are you okay? Nauseated? Cold?"

"No…" He took a deep breath in and then sighed a slow, "_Cameron_… You should get home without me. I feel fine—I need to get some things done here." When she tried to argue, his eyes narrowed. "They need to be done _now_, I'm sorry."

Cameron looked to House for aid, but House's eyes were still trained on Chase.

"Is your shift running late, or something?" She held out a hand to Chase, touching his arm gently. "Do they need you for another surgery?"

"I just have work to do," Chase said. He looked back at House and became caught in the blue stare again; his next argument against Cameron was completely forgotten.

"Do you want to leave by yourself?" she asked; House noticed Chase flinch at the words _by yourself_ and filed it to the back of his mind. "I'll leave now, if you need more time…"

"Yeah," Chase said, swallowing. He turned to her, eyes lingering on House's. "Yeah, could you? I'll call you when I get—"

"I have the nightshift tonight, so I won't be home then anyway," she said, waving a hand as if it didn't matter. "Just leave a message on my cellphone, it's fine…" She stood there for a moment and awkwardly excused herself, nodding to House before she hurried out of the office.

But as soon as she was gone, Wilson appeared at the door, brow twitching with curiosity. "Want brunch, House?"

"Oh, you're just so kind," House faux-giggled, standing. He looked down at Chase when he passed him, but the surgeon turned away, dropping his gaze to the desk. "Sorry Wilson," House continued, limping into the hallway with a glance over his shoulder. "I need to watch people run arbitrary tests for six hours."

"I should tell Cuddy… She thinks you're sick," Wilson muttered, following him, also glancing back at Chase. "Why is _he_ in your office?" he asked, in an undertone.

"Planning an engagement party," House shrugged. "Between you and your next wife. We're hoping her name is Henry, because that's what we wrote on the cake."

"Interesting, you're avoiding anything to do with Chase." Wilson stopped in front of the elevators and watched House keep walking. "House, don't you want brunch?"

House shooed him with a hand.

"Are you actually going to watch your team in Pathology?"

House stopped, opened his mouth, but saw Chase peering out through the glass at him and decided better of it. Waving his cane, he turned and kept limping toward Pathology. "If by Pathology, you mean that _hot_ new stripclub on fourth and Chester…"

House had lied. Of course, that wasn't as shocking as some other things he'd done, but he had _lied_, and it wasn't even to save a patient. It wasn't for Wilson's benefit, it wasn't to keep himself—or anyone else, for that matter—out of jail, and it wasn't even to evade clinic duty. He had lied for the sheer purpose of avoiding Chase, and he knew it.

But even more importantly, it didn't work. After a few hours of sitting quietly in Wilson's empty office, House returned to his own office, only to find the Australian surgeon still inside.

House stopped before the door, peering in at the blonde sitting limply in a chair by the desk. Very quietly, House went into the room, trying to move without waking up Chase. The other doctor's presence wasn't unwanted; instead, House felt a strange twinge of compassion for him. Asleep, Chase seemed boyish and vulnerable, but finally content.

House sat at his desk, about to turn to the computer when he realized the keyboard might wake Chase. He paused, considering—if the doctor _should_ be woken, if House _should_ care about Chase's odd habits, if House _should_ listen to Chase's explanation—and then grabbed a book off his desk and opened to the first page.

He got to page twelve when Wilson appeared at the door, slipping a pen into his pocket protector. House raised a finger to his lips and then gestured for him to come in, jerking his chin toward Chase.

"Why is he in here?" Wilson whispered, leaning against the windowsill. "And why is he sleeping?"

House shrugged, putting his book on a stack of files. "He was like that when I got here. Don't ask me wh—"

"Why was he at your apartment the night he got beaten up?" Wilson asked. He leveled his stare with House. "Don't lie and say he wasn't, because that's not going to convince me. He even has _your_ finger splint on—I hope _you_ didn't beat him up…"

The diagnostician ran a hand through his hair, then looked at Wilson again and gave a slight shrug. "He didn't wake up before I left and he was gone before I got home. He tried to explain, but I—"

"House, if you say that he tried to explain and you refused to listen…" When House nodded, he gave an aggravated sigh. "You're an idiot!" he hissed, still quiet. "I don't know _why_ he's coming to you and not Cameron, but if he's willing to talk…"

"I don't know if I _want_ to be his confidant," House said slowly. He picked up a pencil and absentmindedly twirled it between his fingers, until he realized that it had bite marks on it and froze. He held it up to the light, thinking, and then put it back on the desk with a glance at Chase.

"You _have_ considered what might've happened," Wilson said hesitantly, "haven't you? If it wasn't just a fight, I mean. Opening up to one person—a close father-figure—and distancing himself from his loved ones… House, you _know_ that's classic behavior of a rape victim."

"He wasn't _raped_," House sneered. "He's not weak, he's not female, he's not—"

"You also know that those factors don't discount the possibility." Thinking for a second, Wilson tilted his head to one side. "Didn't some girl a few years ago open up to you about being raped? I guess you have a father-figure thing—"

House shook his head. "She opened up to me because I seemed _damaged_, not because I'd make a great foster father."

"But she opened up to you," Wilson said, a little too loudly. Chase's eyelids seemed to flutter, but they stayed shut and his breathing stayed slow and even. "Maybe he's doing the same thing. Let him talk to you—"

"Let him talk to a counselor," House groaned, grabbing the book again. "Let him talk to Cameron—she's desperate for that anyway—or even _Cuddy_, I don't care. He should know I'm not good with—"

"You _are_ good with it," Wilson contradicted. "You changed that girl's mind; she got an abortion in the end, didn't she? And she talked to the police and opened up to others, because of _you_."

"Because I'm such a _saint_," House murmured, shaking his head. He flipped open the book, trying to end the conversation. "He wasn't raped, so leave it."

"How do you know that? Did he tell you what _did_ happen?"

"He didn't," House admitted, sighing. "But he doesn't… _seem_ like a rape victim." He held up a hand when Wilson's expression turned sour. "I don't mean by gender or musculature; people who have been raped are secluded, not just evasive of overly-anxious Camerons, and their eyes are different. Their eyes are… empty, hollow."

Wilson stared at Chase for a moment, exasperated, and let out a breath. "Well… I have work I should be doing."

"Jimmy, Boy Wonder Oncologist." House pretended to wipe a nostalgic tear from his cheek. "Always helping those baldies…"

"Yeah, yeah… Seriously though. House, you should at least _try_ to listen, if he tries to talk again. I'll see you later."

After Wilson left, House glanced at Chase to see if they had been too loud; the surgeon was still asleep.

House went back to his book, but he could only read a few paragraphs before his mind wandered, his eyes blind to the text in front of him. He began to wonder what Chase would've told him, if he had allowed the blonde to explain himself. As much as House had protested Wilson's theory, rape was a probable diagnosis to Chase's mysterious wounds.

But what would Chase have said? _Well, I was going to a bar and just happened to be picked up by two guys who thought my hair was pretty, and then we ended up in an alleyway with our pants down, and things just escalated from there_? Or would he stumble over his words and only manage a very quick, _I was raped_ before he broke down, stuttering and crying?

House's head jerked up as Chase shifted in his chair. The surgeon's eyes were blinking open, squinting against the light, as his limbs stretched to relieve the ache of sleeping in a chair.

House diverted his eyes back to the pages of his book before Chase could see him staring. But then he felt Chase's eyes on him anyway, and he looked up.

"Why are you still here?" Chase grumbled, his voice hoarse with sleep.

"This is _my_ office," House answered easily. "Why are _you_ still here?"

Chase didn't reply. He grabbed the little square clock off the desk and checked the time. "It's already 3:20?"

"Try 4:15." House snatched the clock back and tried not to let out a chuckle. "Didn't they teach you how to read clocks in the UK?"

"Australia," Chase corrected half-heartedly. "I guess not. Don't you have a case to be working on?"

House shrugged, pretending to be interested in his book. "My peeps are running tests for Cuddymeister to see if a hot chick has no heart. But they're wasting their time; the tests will declare her healthy."

"You have to stay here until they're done?"

House glanced at the clock. "If they're still testing past midnight, I'm leaving anyway. To hell with budding models and their heart complications, I need my _own_ beauty sleep."

"Can I hang out here, then?"

House's head snapped up—he couldn't have heard that right. "_What_?"

A slight flush ran across Chase's face, but he repeated, "Can I hang out in here?"

"With _me_?"

Chase nodded.

House exhaled in some mix of sighing and laughing. "Doing _what_?"

Biting the inside of his lip, Chase shrugged. "Do you have any magazines?"

"You know where they are better than I do…"

The surgeon's face brightened, taking this as the affirmation he was looking for. He went into the other office and returned with a few medical journals, stopping abruptly in the doorway. He hadn't realized until then that House was watching him wander around the office.

The diagnostician hadn't realized it himself until Chase froze, at which time House jerked his eyes back to his book. Chase gave the tiniest quirk of a smile and sat down, flipping to an article about ancient herbal medicine.

Four hours and seven journals later, House snapped his own book shut and briskly stood, limping toward the door. Chase jumped at the sudden movement, startled, but immediately followed House into the hallway.

"Where are you going?" he wondered, uneasily shifting his weight.

"Dinner," House rumbled. He stopped after a few steps and turned back to the Australian. Analyzing the guarded look on Chase's face, House waved his cane and nodded. "And _yes_, you _may_ tag along."

* * *

Chapter four is my favorite chapter, with all its awkward-romantic-tension-ness, but I'm making you guys wait a little before I post it. I'll put it up by Thursday, heh heh. Expect obscure coffee-making and even more obscure face-touching! Whoop!


	4. Chasing the Diagnostician

**Safe Asylum**

Xment2bursX... _((pounces on tchu!))_ WHAT?! You like this fandom?! S'crazy!

_Yes_, the chapter title _is_ a pun. And... cue Thursday!

* * *

The sky outside was gloomy, bringing an early dusk to the parking lot of PPTH. A smooth layer of shadows covered everything and low-hanging clouds kept the sun at bay. Keenly, Chase stared at the dark sky as he walked, nearly tripping over himself until he profoundly surmised, "It's going to be stormy for the next few days."

"I know," came House's response. The diagnostician was moving down one length of the parking lot, toward the main road.

"How do you know—Wait, House, why aren't we…?" Chase jogged to catch up and swept an arm toward the cars. "Aren't we driving—"

"No; we're going to the café across the street." He pointed with his cane, glancing back at Chase. "And I know that bad weather is coming because my leg is a radar, _and_ because it's cloudy. I _know_," he said, feigning haughtiness, "because I'm a _genius_."

Chase continued to follow him, despite the doubt on his face. They came to a stop by the crosswalk. "What do you mean, your leg is a radar?"

"It's like that girl from that Lindsey Lohan movie. Her breasts tell the weather, and so does my infarction." House spun on the Australian, eyes wide. "It's like ESPN or something!" He turned back toward the road, beginning to cross, but not before House saw the lights flicker on behind Chase's eyes.

"That's Wilson's favorite movie," House explained after a few moments, "along with _The Notebook_ and the first Harry Potter movie. Horrible, _horrible_ taste in—"

"Says he who watches _General Hospital_!" Chase chuckled, shaking his head.

House smiled. "Quality television."

A comfortable silence eased between them until the pair entered the café, and the abrupt sound of spirited jazz filled the room. Chase jumped slightly at the blare of a trumpet and looked around, eyeing the décor curiously. Records and photos of jazz artists lined the walls, while signatures covered any open space between.

"Best sandwiches in fifty miles," House murmured. He walked up to the counter without Chase, nodding to the familiar man behind it.

"You haven't been here for a while, Dr. House," the man laughed, leaning on the counter. He jerked his head toward Chase. "Did Dr. Wilson get a bit of work done, or did you kill him and need a surrogate friend?"

A mischievous glint flickered across House's face; he winked. "Don't look in the dumpster out back, is all I'm saying."

"Young kid—another doctor?"

"Something like that." House leaned on his cane, turning his eyes toward the Australian. Chase himself was still looking around like an enamored tourist.

"So, Dr. House, one of your favorites?"

House's gaze snapped back to the man at the counter. "He's not my favorite," he said quickly, startled.

The man stared for a moment, then laughed. "I… meant your favorite sandwich. Aren't you going to order the same thing you always order?"

House gave a quick nod and began twirling his cane, suddenly flustered. Of _course_ the man had meant the sandwich. What else could he—

"What does your friend want?"

House looked up, subtly glancing at Chase. "Surprise him. Olives and chicken, but nothing too spicy."

The man turned away to make the sandwiches, but House took the moment to lean on his cane again and stare at the Australian. This time, Chase looked over, freezing when he noticed the blue eyes on him. But after a second, he threw his ex-boss a crooked smile and wandered deeper into the place, out of House's sight.

House twitched, about to move when he decided against it. Two sandwiches thumped quietly onto the counter beside him, the man already tapping at the register's keys.

Distracted, the diagnostician handed him a ten, blindly putting the change in his wallet. He grabbed the two sandwiches and limped around the wall, eyes narrowed in search of Chase. For the thirty seconds that he couldn't see Chase, he felt something like worry tugging at his stomach.

"Chase," he barked as soon as he spotted the Australian. The blonde turned cheerily and followed House to a booth in the corner.

"You eat here often, then?" the surgeon asked, taking the sandwich gratefully. "Has this place been here a while?"

"A while," House nodded, watching Chase take a bite of the sandwich. He looked down at the table, and then looked back up. "Why do you keep coming to _me_?"

Chase stopped mid-chew and swallowed. "What do you—"

"You _know_ what I mean." House leveled his gaze with the Australian's. "Why aren't you dogging Cameron? She's more available than I am. She's… prettier, sympathetic, concerned. She desperately wants to talk about what happened to you. Why—"

"Does it matter?" Chase shrugged, suddenly fascinated with the tablecloth. "I'm not obstructing your job, right? I'm just—"

"You're clinging onto the only person who won't hold your hand and cry with you over _whatever_ happened." House sighed, staring at Chase until the surgeon met his gaze. "You could go to Cameron, Cuddy, Foreman, Wilson, someone from the OR, your mother, _my_ mother—someone who might actually give a damn. And don't say whatever happened doesn't matter," he said as soon as Chase opened his mouth, "because if you wanted to explain yourself to _me_, who you _knew_ wouldn't care, you must want to explain it to _someone_."

"Maybe it _doesn't_ matter, and I just felt like you should know why I was so battered when I showed up at your—"

"I'm not really interested in why you were so battered," House interrupted.

"I know," Chase said evenly. "I just thought—"

"I'm _more_ interested," House continued, brow raised, "why you came to _my_ apartment, and not to your own, or to Cameron's. What's your logic behind _that_ decision?"

Chase shrugged again. "If I went to Cameron's apartment, she would have made a big deal out of things. You don't give a damn, which is ideal, and your apartment was closer anyway."

"She's making a bigger deal out of the situation because she knows _nothing_, and she thinks I know _everything_. And if you wanted to be ignored, you would go about as usual—_not_ spend the entire day tailing me!"

"Am I _bothering_ you? You have no cases," Chase argued, "and the only thing you've done today is sit in your office, waiting for lab results to get back to you!"

"You're not burdening me, I agree, but everyone else is suspicious! People keep bothering me—Just go tell someone what happened, so that they can deal with it instead of me!"

Chase took another bite of the sandwich, delaying his reply. Finally, he asked, "Do _you_ want to hear my explanation?"

House sighed. "Wilson says I should listen. He's linking this incident to… to an old patient."

Chase straightened in his seat. "Which patient?"

Shaking his head, House said, "It doesn't matter."

"So… you _don't_ want to know?"

"Why don't you tell _Cameron_? She _wants_ to know! While you're at it—here's a genius idea—go hang out with her; she _is_ your girlfriend, isn't she?"

"Am I bothering you by tagging along?" Chase put his elbows on the table, leaning closer. "I'm not being a nuisance—you don't have any cases anyway—"

"Maybe I don't have any cases, but—"

"By sitting in your office, silently reading a magazine, maybe—"

"Just go to Cameron—"

"—maybe sleeping—"

"—or Cuddy, or Wilson—"

"—am I really being _that_ much of a burden to y—"

"Yes!" House finally roared, slamming a hand into the tabletop. "_Yes_! You're distracting me!"

Chase leaned back in his seat, swallowing hard. "I—"

"You're making me unfocused!" House's brow creased, his eyes boring holes into Chase. "I can't concentrate; everyone keeps talking about you, so I can't even be distracted from the commotion you're making!" Taking a breath, he looked away, tapping his cane on the ground. Abruptly, he stood and started toward the door. "I have to get back to the hospital."

"House—!" Chase grabbed House's untouched sandwich, along with his own, and raced after the diagnostician. He followed him back to the office, keeping a few steps behind and taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

When Chase reached House's door, the man was already at his desk, leaned over, forehead resting on the arc of his cane. His blue eyes barely looked up when Chase opened the door, but he sat upright when Chase dropped the plastic-wrapped sandwich onto the desk. "You… forgot it," Chase said slowly, by way of explanation.

House opened his mouth to reply, but then the door opened again and Cuddy walked in, arms folded. The diagnostician smiled at her as soon as her eyes began to smolder. "I promise, that hooker _wanted_ it rough!" he chuckled.

"Shut up," Cuddy snapped before she spun on Chase. "Cameron came into my office a few minutes ago, just before her shift in the ER started. She told me you weren't at home and you _certainly_ weren't resting, which is clear to me now." Chase tried to reply, but she held up a manicured hand. "No, don't talk. I gave you time off because you're _injured_, not because you wanted a playdate with House. I didn't even ask what the hell happened to you, because I thought you needed privacy in your private life! Go home, Dr. Chase, or I'll send up Dr. Cameron to drag you there."

Sighing, Chase watched her turn to go. But suddenly House threw a pencil at her and said in a low voice, "Cuddy."

She stopped, dropped her head, and looked back at him. "_Yes_, Dr. House?"

"I'm making him stay here," he announced. Chase jerked his eyes to his ex-boss. "I need him."

Cuddy considered that, picking up the pencil. Tossing it back to House, she smirked. "You're _lying_," she accused, smug. "If anyone, your patient would need a cardiologist—and _you_ need a _psychologist_! Why would you need a _surgeon_?"

House shrugged, briefly noting that the pencil he'd thrown had teeth marks on it. "Why do _I_ need a surgeon…? Well, Dr. Cuddy, why do _you_ need to wear thongs when it's obvious no one is checking out your ass? Why does Wilson need to get married and then cheat on his wife? Why do I need foursomes when threesomes are just as fun _and_ 300 dollars less?"

Cuddy was already out the door, walking purposefully toward Wilson's office before House finished. House only watched her go, letting out a _hmph_ of triumph, until Chase cleared his throat.

"Why did you do that?" he asked quietly, once again sitting in the chair across the desk. "You didn't—"

"I didn't want Cameron up here, disturbing the peace again." House didn't look at him.

After a moment, Chase spoke, his voice still soft. "If you want me to leave…"

House didn't give an answer.

"If you want me to leave, House, just tell me to leave…"

Still no answer.

Chase stood and reached across the desk, managing to grab the magic eight ball. His arm brushed House's and the diagnostician shifted subtly away, but Chase noticed and tried not to smile.

"Does House want me to go away?" Chase asked the toy, sitting in his chair again, shaking the black ball for an answer. "And the verdict is… Ah. It's a very solid _Mayb_—"

"I need to talk to Wilson," House interjected, rising from his chair. "Stay here." A foot from the door, he caught his error and froze. He spoke without turning around; "Or, don't stay here. You can leave, or you can stay… _Or_ you can leave, like Cuddy told you to, or talk to Cameron, or yourself, or go back to sleep or—_Just don't follow me_," he finally amended, and shoved the door open with more force than necessary.

He arrived at Wilson's office seconds later, just as Cuddy was leaving. She said nothing to House, but it was clear by the look on the oncologist's face that she had said _plenty_ to Wilson. House closed the door behind him and plopped into a chair with a sigh.

Wilson's thick eyebrows came together, hanging low over his eyes in a mix of disapproval and curiosity. "Why are you—?"

"I decided to save you the trouble of hunting me down before the berating begins." House picked up another snowglobe from Wilson's desk, this time with a penguin family inside it, and swirled the snowflakes around. "I knew Cuddy would be after me, so…" He shrugged, glancing behind him to the balcony; he couldn't see Chase.

"If you're not going to talk to Chase, you should at least let him leave." Wilson closed the file on his desk with vehemence, suddenly irritated. "Give me the snowglobe and tell him to get out of the hospital. You don't need a surgeon right now, and what Chase needs is sleep." He paused, leaning forward to get a better look at House. "You seem agitated."

"Agitated?" House threw the snowglobe at him. "I do _not_."

"Not agitated, exactly—embarrassed, maybe?" Wilson smiled when House twitched, giving himself away. "That's it, isn't it? You're embarrassed. What happened?"

"Nothing happened—"

"Which means _something_ happened!" Wilson's eyes grew wide. "_Did_ you talk to Chase? You only get like this if things become too personal for you to handl—"

House smacked his cane against the side of Wilson's desk. "I can too handle personal things, thank you very much!" He began to rise. "What I can't handle is your incessant pestering—Did you even want anything from me, or did I come over here for—"

"Just let Chase go home," Wilson sighed, holding up his palms in surrender. "I don't know what you're planning or whether you're just being inconsiderate, but Cuddy's going to unleash the wrath of a Cameron scorned if you don't—"

"_Shockingly_," House interrupted, taking a slow step out the door, "I'm not the one keeping him here. Chase is here of his own volition."

"But you're still playing the devil's advocate," Wilson guessed.

"Au contraire, mon ami! I'm the one telling him to go home—but he won't!" House shrugged, cane flailing, and returned to his office after a simple, "Au revoir, Wilson."

Chase opened the glass door for him, having apparently risen to open the blinds. House threw him a dubious look and grabbed his sandwich off the desk, then went into the main diagnostics room. He knew Chase would follow him, but he didn't expect the surgeon to start making coffee.

For a minute, House sat silently and watched Chase make expert use of coffee filters and water. Just as the blonde finished, he turned and snatched House's sandwich off the table, tossing it onto a plate and into the microwave.

"Hey—" was all House could grunt before Chase swept away, disappearing into the main office. He returned with a red mug and a medical journal. He dropped the latter on the glass table across from House and hurried to rinse the mug, drying it with a paper towel until he was satisfied.

And then the microwave dinged, and a hot sandwich abruptly slid in front of House. The diagnostician stared at Chase as he finally took a seat.

"Are you a _House_-wife or a surgeon?" House asked, incredulous.

Chase looked up. "I'm making myself useful," he said quietly, puzzled but pleased, flipping the journal open to a dog-eared page.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know." He started to read. "But I want to."

The coffeemaker's light flickered on; Chase's gaze caught it and he stood, pouring the coffee into House's mug despite the blue-eyed glare.

"You're being domestic," House growled, appearing over Chase's shoulder.

The Australian froze and couldn't turn around. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood upright as he muttered, "Robertis domestica?"

House chose to ignore the reaction, also ignoring his own goosebumps, and continued grabbing sugar packets. "Binomial nomenclature joke, _nice_. The world needs more of those." Taking a spoon, he sat down once again.

Chase let out a breath he wasn't consciously holding. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to make his shivers disappear. "But you're still drinking the coffee, aren't you?"

House stopped mid-sip, narrowing his eyes. Still seated, he reached over to take a random mug from the sink and spit into it, smirking. But then he reconsidered and drank more from his red mug, sighing with theatric contentment. "This is coffee heaven," he shrugged. "Have you _tasted_ Taub's coffee? It's _atrocious_!"

Chase's expression brightened; he poured his own cup and then took a seat. House kept his eyes on the surgeon as Chase immersed himself in fine medical reading. House's gaze latched onto Chase's eyes as they moved deftly across the page, long, pale eyelashes fluttering when he blinked. The surgeon seemed oblivious to the blue stare, captivated within his own world of medical mysteries.

House didn't feel himself move, but his body slowly inclined toward the table, fascinated by Chase. Cameron had been right about the puffy eye—Chase's right eye looked as if the swelling had just begun to dissipate—but the cut on Chase's forehead still worried him. It was bandaged, true, but unless Cameron had taken extra precaution in stitching the gaping slice…

Before he knew what he was doing, House was leaning across the table, arm outstretched, fingers peeling up the edge of the bandage. Chase twitched away slightly, his eyes flickering up to House's expression before returning to the pages of the journal.

House paused for only a moment, but he felt the dual urge to rip his hand away and stalk out of the room, _and_ to satiate his curiosity—not only in whether Cameron stitched up the cut properly, but also what _exactly_ happened to Chase, if he was raped, why he chose to follow House, _why he wasn't pulling away_—

But then it didn't matter all of a sudden, because the door opened and Thirteen walked into the room. Her mouth opened, about to speak, when she looked up from the file and saw House reaching toward Chase.

"Oh," Thirteen said in an undertone, motionless. "Um."

Chase started to turn, but House tugged on the corner of the bandage to keep him still. "Find anything over yonder in Pathology?" House asked the newest intruder, utterly composed. He used both hands to uncover the laceration and then looked it over, glancing up at Thirteen sporadically.

"Oh—no," she said too loudly. The awkward tension in the room was mirrored on her face, but she tried to overcome it. "Well, not exactly. Well… I don't know. Cuddy came in, and then so did Cameron, and—"

"And they sent you up here to tell _him_ to go home," House guessed, nodding at Chase. Almost to himself, he added, "She stitched it up decently…"

"She's in the ER all the time," Chase answered, refusing to look up from his book, "if you're referring to Cameron. She's had to stitch up worse, I'm sure."

"_Shouldn't_ he be going home?" Thirteen asked half-heartedly. "They're both really worried—"

"I'm not keeping him on a leash," House muttered, pressing the gauze bandage back into place. "Go back to the lab, if that's all you wanted to say to me."

Thirteen considered that and hastily left; House sank back into his seat, watching her go before he took another sip of coffee and moved his eyes to Chase.

"You can leave any time," House reminded him.

Chase nodded but didn't look up. "I know."

"You should talk to Cameron."

"You said that already."

"Or Cuddy," House added.

"Or Wilson," Chase said with half a smile. "I know."

"He thinks I'm keeping you here."

"I know."

"So does everyone else."

Chase nodded slowly, distracted. "I know."

"I don't want to hear about what happened to you."

"House…" The Aussie shot him a look. "I know."

"Other people care."

"I know."

"Like Cameron."

"Or Cuddy, _or_ Wilson," Chase recited. "I _know_."

"Cameron thinks you're being threatened by the mafia."

Chase chuckled. "I know."

"Cuddy thinks you got into a fight."

"I know!"

"Wilson thinks…" His voice faded out.

Chase finally looked up, startled by the intensity of House's gaze. But then the blue eyes suddenly darted away from him, pinpointing a spot on the carpet to contemplate.

"Wilson thinks…?" Chase prodded. "House?"

"Nothing." He shoved away from the table, dumping his dishes into the sink. "Wilson's insane."

House pulled the blinds in his office as soon as he got inside the door, shutting out all forms of light. He sat in his chair, closed his eyes, hoped that Chase would leave him alone—and then he fell asleep.

What seemed like seconds later, a hushed voice was bringing him out of his dream as a hand shook him awake. The dream was disconcerting—House was back in the café, looking for someone, but all he could see were obscure puddles of blood on the ground—and yet House clung to it, unwilling to join reality.

"House!" the voice whispered.

Cracking his eyes open, the first thing he saw was the blonde surgeon asleep in that damn chair again, and the second was Taub's weary face.

"House, the tests are all normal, but Cuddy's holding off on discharging her until tomorrow afternoon."

"Wh… Oh, the patient." House picked up the clock and stared at the time—11:04. Why hadn't Chase gone back to his apartment? "That's normal paranoid-Cuddy behavior."

Taub glanced at Chase. "What's going on with _him_?"

"It looks like he's sleeping," House observed, "_again_."

* * *

I should probably update another story soon, but this one is _so_ addicting to write...!


	5. Curiosity

**Safe Asylum**

I blame the delayed update on Jude Law and Wall-E... (_Wallll-Eeee_...)

* * *

House's hand was in mid-reach for the door when the diagnostician heard an all-too-familiar sigh from behind him. It was the noise a wombat makes when disturbed from its sleep, and it was the exact noise House had been hoping to avoid.

"Where are you going?" a bleary murmur asked.

House stopped, arm falling from where it was outstretched. Leisurely, he turned to face the surgeon. "Home. You see, _some_ people, when they want solace, go to their _own_ apartments." He shrugged, faking a laugh. "I know, it's a foreign concept to you, but _normal_ people don't drop in on their ex-bosses and take up couch space."

Chase grabbed the clock off the desk. He sat a little straighter, his eyes going wide at the time. "How did it get so late?" he mumbled.

House tried and failed to ignore the panic sweeping across the blonde's expression. He forced his gaze from Chase, choosing instead to stare loathingly at a particular thread on the carpet. He waited until Chase spoke again, tone controlled, to look up.

"I… I guess I better get going, too." Chase stood and nodded with forced resolve. He looked around, apparently making sure he didn't leave anything behind, and took a few awkward steps closer to House. "Well?" he asked after a minute; he waved a hand toward the door. "Are we going?"

There was a pause, and suddenly House grinned. "_We_?"

"Are _you_ going, so _I_ can go out the door too?" Chase amended, but a flush undeniably began to spread across his face.

House feigned distress. "You aren't going to follow me home?" He let Chase inwardly squirm for a few seconds and then opened the door, limping down the hall. He tugged at the strap of his backpack to shift it across his shoulder—or at least, that's what he _pretended_ to do. Hitching the backpack a little higher on his shoulder gave him a quick glance at the Aussie, to see if the surgeon was going to follow him.

And Chase was, it seemed. The blonde trailed him from the office to the elevator, but stopped abruptly as the doors slid open.

"Coming?" House asked, arranging himself in the corner of the elevator. He kept the doors parted with his cane.

A startled but hopeful flicker lit in Chase's eyes. "But… you don't like riding with anyone but Wilson."

"…_if you know what I mean_." House threw him a suggestive grin, jerking his head. "Just get in the elevator."

Tentatively, Chase obeyed, and this time he stood against the back wall of the elevator. He still stared courteously at the closed doors, even when House started twirling his cane.

Without warning, House stopped the cane and jabbed Chase in the side with the end of it. The blonde let out a pained hiss, his hand moving to cover the lower right part of his ribs. His eyes found House's as soon as he was sure no other jabs were coming, and his gaze held a surprising amount of venom.

"What—"

"Diagnostic test," House said as the elevator doors opened. He stepped into the near-empty lobby, waiting until the Aussie hobbled out to start walking. "I wanted to see where your injuries were."

Chase let out a resentful chuckle. He rubbed his side, but had no problem keeping up with House's limp. "And so you stabbed me, once, in the ribs?"

"I noticed you had a bandage sticking out of your collar," he explained, "but it's obvious that your shoulder's fine."

The surgeon's breathe caught for a second as a sharp pain shot through his ribs; House jolted to a stop. He felt a wave of foreign emotion and realized he _probably_ shouldn't have hit Chase, at least not as forcefully. But then Chase recovered and continued toward the door, and House scrambled to find neutrality again.

"So"—Chase winced—"you couldn't have just _asked_ where my injury was?"

They were outside now, and the sky was clouded and drizzling. "You would've lied," House answered eventually. He faced the antipodean doctor, tone serious. "For example, if I said that the bandage on your wrist covered a bruise, you would agree with me." He pointed to the offending arm. "But if I said that that bruise was shaped _suspiciously_ like a handprint, as if someone had grabbed you too hard, you'd—"

"No, it doesn't." Chase subconsciously put his hand in his pocket, hiding the bandage. "It's not even a bruise, House, it's a cut."

"You're lying!" He laughed, attitude somewhere between mockery and irony. "I saw it at the apartment, and there's no cut."

Chase stared down at the pavement.

"…And now, exit stage right." House walked briskly away from the silent blonde, his cane making the only noise in the parking lot. He looked up into the rainy sky and made a mental note to leave the motorcycle at the apartment for the next few days, pointedly keeping his mind away from Chase.

As soon as House revved the motorcycle to life, his eyes found their way to the entrance of PPTH. The glance would've only lasted a moment if his perusing gaze hadn't caught on Chase yet again, but sure enough, the Australian surgeon remained by the doors.

Something in the back of House's brilliant mind clicked, and as soon as the results of that realization tumbled through House's thoughts, he wished he could un-think them. It was one thing to leave a battered ex-employee on the sidewalk, but it was something entirely different to leave when House _knew_ Chase didn't have any way to get home.

He could take a bus, obviously, but that shudder hours ago when Cameron said _leave by yourself_ was proof enough that Chase wouldn't use public transportation. Honestly, Chase should've left with Cameron—it made the most sense. House could barely even remember why he let Chase stay. He should've harangued the wombat into leaving earlier…

House sighed, setting the black helmet in his lap. _Damn_, he needed to find a cure for that tearing feeling in his chest, especially if it reappeared every time he thought about Chase. This time, he knew it was an onset of guilt, and dearly hoped what he was about to do would make it go away.

And that's how he ended up circling the parking lot on his motorcycle, kicking the brake only as he pulled up beside Chase.

"Hey."

Chase's eyes were wide and very green when they wavered on House's. He took half a step back, jarred by the single word of greeting, trying to understand what House was doing in front of him.

Finding his voice at last, he asked, "What're you—"

"Get on the bike."

Chase barely managed to catch the helmet when it flew at him. The surgeon blinked, bewildered, mouth agape. "You… You're kidding."

House pushed the gas, rocking the bike forward an inch. The murmuring engine resounded off the pavement; House quirked an unconscious smile at the sound of it, and looked at Chase again. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"But I…" Chase scrutinized his face, still shaken. "You're…"

"Would you rather take a bus?"

Those were the magic words. Chase frowned but yanked on the helmet, swallowing nervously. "Is it safe, to—"

House cut him off by revving the engine. "Will you just get on the damn bike?"

He took a step closer but faltered, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

"Five," House announced. "Four. Three." He squinted at Chase. "Two…"

Chase threw a leg over the motorcycle, flipping down the plastic visor of the helmet. "Just… don't crash."

"…One." House glimpsed over his shoulder. "And I won't crash. Now hold on, or you'll meet the pavement _real_ fast."

Chase swallowed hard again and put his feet on the bike. House kicked up the stand and held the brake, reaching back to yank Chase's arms around himself.

"Not kidding. Hold on." He pushed the motorcycle forward with one foot and gave it gas, and within seconds they were out on the street, zooming away from PPTH.

House had been right: that annoying guilty feeling had long since gone away. But now there was a new emotion, a tingling warmth that tightened his chest almost pleasantly. He held no delusions about what was causing it—clearly, it was a reaction to the Australian whose arms were currently wrapped around him—although House was more than a little confused about how his body translated _male __ex-employee_ into such agreeable sparks of heat.

The tension that had built up all day _had_ to be at fault. House never even got those sorts of feelings when Cameron was sitting behind him on the bike, just where Chase was now.

_But they're not the same_, a tiny voice reminded him. And it was right—Cameron's arms around his waist were tight, but only as much as necessary, and only in the most respectful way. Chase's grip had become tense and firm as soon as the bike started to move, and the clutching grasp didn't loosen at stoplights. Cameron had at least readjusted herself at every pause, clearing her throat and allowing House to make a few innuendos. Chase's taut forearms around House didn't move.

"I don't know where your apartment is," House pointed out, stopped at a red light. The bike rocked to one side as he turned around briefly. "It's over here somewhere, but…"

"Take a left at the next light."

Nodding, House faced forward again. But the light was still red, and an idea popped into his head. Subtly, he reached down to toy with Chase's cuff, starting to unbutton the bandaged wrist. The surgeon didn't notice. At least, not until House accidentally brushed his fingers against Chase's bare skin.

"What—" Chase quickly let go of House, leaning back to fix his cuff. "Don't—"

"I was curious," House chuckled.

"You're _always_ curious!"

House shrugged, accelerating as soon as the light was green. Chase gave an irritated, startled gasp; his arms flew around House again and the diagnostician could feel the fingertips digging into his jacket. When House took a left, as Chase had instructed, the surgeon held on so tight that the older doctor laughed.

"Red building, on the right," Chase said. House nodded and pulled up beside the apartment complex, killing the engine at the curb.

Chase untangled himself and stumbled onto the sidewalk, crossing his arms across his chest. When he turned to face the diagnostician again, he realized that House had no intention of simply driving away. In fact, the man was already moving toward the apartment's main entrance, his blue eyes glimmering with amusement.

"Are _you_ following _me_ home?" Chase asked. He managed not to stammer, but he tripped through the door and ended up blushing anyway.

House merely laughed. "I'm _curious_."

After a silent elevator ride to the third floor and an anxious pause while Chase opened the door to his apartment, House finally broke the tension by pushing through the door first and flouncing onto the couch.

"Of course you can come in," Chase muttered with a sigh. But House heard him, and the blue-eyed glare told him that House knew Chase didn't mind the visitor. If the blonde was being honest, he was actually glad to have someone in the apartment.

"Want a beer?" Chase asked after a minute.

House, whose gaze had been roving the décor, suddenly looked at Chase in surprise. "Do you actually have _decent_ beer? Or just Australian trash?"

"Australian trash," he chuckled, but he shuffled into the kitchen to get two bottles anyway.

House waited until Chase had disappeared and then made his way over to the phone. The red light blinked, tempting House, calling out for him to press the _Messages_ button. That light became too enticing for House; he gave in, pressing the button.

"You have… nine… new messages," the machine said. "First new message…"

Cameron's voice was light over the phone. "Hey, are you running a little late? It's 6:30 now… Call me back. I love you!"

Chase appeared in the kitchen doorway with two bottles, his eyes wide. "Why are you—"

The machine interrupted him. "Next new message…"

"Hey again, it's me." Cameron's voice was a little edgy. "It's almost eight. I guess you're still working… Just, call me back when you get the chance. Bye, love you!"

"Next new message…"

"It's Alison again, and it's half past ten." The frequency of Cameron's voice became higher and more strained. "Your cellphone keeps going straight to voicemail. Please, call me back. I'm worried."

House guffawed as the machine announced another message. "Where was the _I love you_ that time?" he wondered, snatching a beer from Chase. He took a sip and nodded in approval.

Chase took a swig of his own beer, more out of desperation than anything. He didn't want House listening to his messages, especially the ones Cameron left.

"Goooood morning," a new voice chuckled. "Carlisle here. It's a beautiful morning, 9:19 AM, and your girlfriend is _psychotic_!"

"Carlisle's another surgeon," Chase said by way of explanation while the man on the machine chuckled.

"Chase, seriously, get your ass into work. Doctor Cuddy even got dragged in by Alison. I'm not sure if your night was _really_ awesome or _really_ shitty, but either way, at least call in sick before playing hooky. And… your girl just stormed in the lounge doors again. I gotta run."

"Cameron really did go on a rampage," House smirked, taking another swallow of beer.

Chase could only shake his head and wait for the fifth message to start.

Cuddy's voice was unmistakable. "Chase, either come into work or buy Cameron a leash."

House started laughing.

"Next new message…"

"Hey Robert," Cameron's voice said. Inwardly, Chase groaned. "Please, _please_ call me. I just called House at his apartment, but he just suggested you might be sleeping with the male nurse from pediatrics."

Chase choked on his beer. "_What_?" he coughed.

House rolled his eyes. "You can't tell from Cameron's frantic delivery, but that was said jokingly."

"Obviously, that's not true," Cameron continued via machine, "but if you could call and tell me what's _actually_ going on… Please? I love you… Bye. Call me!"

"Can you turn it off?" Chase asked, coming towards the phone. Wielding his cane, House blocked his path; Chase didn't come closer.

The answering machine continued. "Robert Chase, this is the police department." The blonde froze, looking up at House with more fear than warranted. House made a note of that, and looked away. "We've just received a missing persons report for you, and have located your car in the parking garage at the intersection of Ninth and Harper. Messages concerning your disappearance will be left on all available phone numbers, including home, cell and work numbers. Please cooperate with our investigation and call the police department as soon as you receive this message. Thank you."

Chase's nerves seemed assuaged by the message, for some reason. He sank into the couch and rubbed his temples.

"Next new mes—"

"How do you have _nine_ messages anyway?" House asked, but then Cameron's voice started up again. By this time, she was practically hysterical.

"Robert, it's me. I spoke to the police about you and they found your car. Your cellphone was inside of it, so I guess this is the only way to reach you." Her voice cracked as she finished the sentence. "I asked House about it and he said he didn't know anything, but he _has_ to know _something_…"

Chase sat upright and spun on House. "Did you—"

"I didn't tell her anything."

"I don't know what idiotic thing House is making you do," Cameron seethed, "but I want you to call me! Okay? Please, Robert, _call_. Call _House_, even, just tell him to pass on the news!"

"Are you sure?" Chase asked, ignoring the machine for once. "You didn't tell her _anything_, at _all_?"

House shook his head, eyes on the carpet. "That's why she's freaking out."

"It's two in the afternoon," Cameron sighed through the machine. House was surprised the phone could even record this much whining. "I love you… I _miss_ you… Please, Robert. Bye…"

"Next new message…"

"There's more?" House muttered.

"Hey Robert, you said you'd call me back when you got home." This message was from only a few hours ago. "It's almost ten… Leave a message on my cellphone once you get this, okay? I hope you aren't still with House… I talked to Cuddy, and she said House needed you for some reason. I don't know what's going on between you two, but make sure you're getting enough rest."

She paused, about to say more. But then she changed her mind and ended the message with a simple, "Bye, love you."

"End of messages." The answering machine beeped, clicked, and then stopped making noise altogether.

Everything was quiet for a minute. House didn't make any remarks; he only took another sip of his beer and stared at Chase, considering.

And then a high-pitched ring came from House's pocket. He set the beer on the table and fished out his cellphone, flipping it open, letting out a groan.

"Good evening, darling!" House said into the phone with insincere adoration. Chase tried not to laugh. "Do you miss me?"

"What did you just smoke, and where can I get some?" Kutner laughed, creating static. "We need you at the hospital. New patient—little girl in a play suddenly was rushed to the ER with her liver in the toilet."

"Was it a ballet?" House asked arbitrarily as he resumed drinking.

"I don't—hey Thirteen, was the kid in a ballet?" A quiet voice said something sarcastic in the background, and Kutner laughed. "Yeah, apparently. Can you come in?"

"Of course, sweetheart!" House feigned a giggle and snapped the phone shut.

"Late night patient?" Chase guessed.

"Clingy hooker." House shook his head, setting the beer on the table. "Terribly naughty, but busy during the day. She's the administrator of a hospital on the side."

Chase laughed, opening the door for House. "I see. Any relation to Cuddy?"

The diagnostician only smiled. But in the hallway, he stopped, turning to face Chase again. He looked up at the surgeon, a shadow falling over his eyes, creating two bright sparks of blue in the darkness. His tone became serious.

"You're not going to get mauled on the way to work again, are you?" His gaze fell to the ground. "Cameron'll burst into flames."

"She _did_ seem to think it was your fault," Chase chuckled.

"And you won't reappear on my couch?"

"I'll try not to…" Chase let out another laugh. "Are you _worrying_ about me, House?"

House's eyes scrutinized his ex-employee's face, watching as the humor behind the smile gradually turned into comprehension.

"_Are_ you worrying…?" Chase asked when a few seconds had passed.

"No." House jerked his eyes to the ground again. "_Cameron_'s the anxious one."

Another moment passed in silence; Chase sighed, rifling a hand through his hair. "All right," he nodded, swallowing. "Thanks, then. For the ride."

House nodded back. "You're welcome."

Another pause. This time, the surgeon smiled a little. "So, um." He raised a brow. "Are you going to the hospital now, or are you coming back inside the apar—"

"Are you okay?"

Chase took a mental stumble and forgot how to speak. He found that was a common symptom of House, especially when those blue eyes seemed to bore into his thoughts. "Wh…?"

"Are you okay?" he repeated, almost grudgingly. "Here, I mean. Alone."

Chase felt his mouth hanging open a little but didn't think to close it. "House…?"

"By yourself?" House frowned. "Yes or no question, Chase."

"Yeah," Chase said, unsure. He said it again, stronger: "Yeah. I'll be fine."

All at once, House's expression lost its severity. He gave a terse nod and swiveled toward the elevator, not even bothering to glance behind.

_Are you worrying about me, House?_

He slipped the helmet over his head, kicking up the stand on his motorcycle. "Unfortunately," he murmured to no one, "I think I am."

His phone started to ring, but House silenced it and started toward the hospital. His head felt murky all of a sudden, and not even in that satisfying diagnostically-relevant sort of way. He was confused, _genuinely_ confused. The gravity which usually pulled him toward patients and cases felt weak compared to the super-magnet pulling him to Chase.

His conscience wanted to protect Chase, to go back and keep the demons at bay. At every stoplight and stop sign between Chase's apartment complex and PPTH, House considered making a U-turn and returning to the antipodean blonde. The notion of actually acting upon his conscience was absolutely insane, but that didn't stop unfamiliar feelings from clawing at the inside of his stomach, from making him shaky with apprehension.

As soon as he parked his motorcycle, he called Wilson. The oncologist picked up on the fourth ring with an irritated, "What's wrong _now_, House?"

House stopped in front of the main entrance, shaking his head.

"House?" Wilson's voice became concerned. "House, are you okay?"

"Don't ask me _that_," House barked, rubbing his forehead. "I'm _fine_."

"If you were fine, you wouldn't be calling me."

"What if I just need a consult?"

Wilson snorted. "_Do_ you need a consult, House?"

He didn't answer.

"Evidently not." The teddybear oncologist sighed, and House could practically _see_ him rubbing the back of his neck. "House, are you on anything other than Vicodin right now?"

"No."

Wilson tried again. "Are you… in danger?"

"Of being bored to death via phonecall? Yes."

"Hey, _you_ called _me_. Are you… hungry?"

House actually chuckled at that. "Yes. But that's beside the point."

"Oh!" Wilson feigned shock. "There was a _point_ to this call? Enlighten me!"

"I'm just…" He searched for the right word and came up short. "…a bit perplexed."

"Because you talked to Chase?" When House didn't reply immediately, Wilson made a triumphant humming noise. "You did, didn't you?"

"I didn't talk to him about what happened," House said truthfully.

"But you talked. And got confused." Wilson made another smug noise. "Are you starting to theorize, or are you just upset that you really _do_ care about human beings?"

The door opened behind House and Thirteen appeared, looking rather disgruntled. "You're _chatting_?" she asked. "Unbelievable. We have a patient, House!"

"Go fix your patient," Wilson ordered. "And _then_ we can talk."

"Patient, schmatient," House replied, but Thirteen grabbed the phone from him and hung up.

"Patient, schmatient is upstairs, jaundiced," she said, opening the door for him. "Chase can wait."

House froze, slightly startled. "That was Wilson," he corrected.

"But you were talking about Doctor Chase, weren't you?" Thirteen shrugged, leading toward the elevators. "You had the same look on your face as you did this afternoon, when I walked in on you two in the diagnostics office."

House jabbed the elevator button with the end of his cane and shot her a glare. "What _look_ did I have on my face?"

Thirteen shrugged again, crossing her arms. "Curiosity, I guess. A little uncertainty." She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. "But mostly, it was as if you weren't quite in control—and as if you _knew_ that, and were scared by it."

The elevator opened, filling the silence. Finally, House shook his head and spoke. "I'm not _scared_ of Chase. That's ridiculous."

"I never said you were afraid of _him_," she sighed. "You actually seemed a little… _engrossed_ in him. Maybe even somewhat _attracted_ to him."

House threw her another look, but hearing that observation made his chest clench.

"And I think you're _scared_ of feeling something like that," she continued as they left the elevator, "toward _anyone_."

"And _I_ think we should end this conversation. _Now_." House opened the door to the office, where Taub and Kutner were pouring themselves coffee.

"Heads up," Foreman called, tossing the patient's file across the room.

House flipped it open a little too eagerly, paging through it in a sad attempt to ignore his conscience. Even while the team created a few preliminary diagnoses, the rogue voice in his ear reminded him that he could only bury himself in work for so long… and that once the case was solved, Chase would be back on his mind once more.

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